


Blue Jeans

by fleshkin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe: Band, Bastille - Freeform, M/M, Song Lyrics, lana del rey - Freeform, song covers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-03 23:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5311313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleshkin/pseuds/fleshkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a fic inspired by bastille's cover of lana del rey's blue jeans.</p><p>edited for some continuity errors and tags. please read the notes for edits and a more detailed summary and/or explanation of tags.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Walked into the room you know I made your eyes burn

**Author's Note:**

> -derek is still a werewolf and stiles is a witch  
> -everyone is in two bands  
> -the fire and kate happened, and peter is alive and evil  
> -there is graphic depictions of blood and gore in chapter 4  
> -there are some mentions of sexual content but no explicit sex scenes  
> -there's also a lot of brooding, martyr complexes, impostor syndrome, and ptsd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> first chapter of Blue Jeans

“Are you ready?”

“If you are.”

“They're gonna make a big deal out of this.”

“Whatever Stiles. Let's just get this over with.”

 

 

They walk into the rehearsal room. Stiles clears his throat. “We got a new song.” Erica's right eyebrow shoots up. Isaac's left eyebrow does a strange gymnastics routine, then quickly flips back to join the other eyebrow in their usual perfect arches.

“... Oookay,” Kira says slowly, biting her lip and watching the others as if daring them to say anything. “Um. Do you have all the parts?”

“Yep.” Derek hands them to everyone. “I'm on synth, Stiles is on piano, Kira's on drums and Erica's on bass. Isaac can be back-up vocals and percussion.”

No one speaks as they look over the music. Then Stiles claps his hands together. “Ready?” They all nod and get into position. He looks to Derek.

“Let's start.”

 

 

Stiles opens his mouth and begins his characteristic low rasp:

“Blue jeans, white shirt,

Walked into the room, you know I made your eyes burn.

It was like, James Dean, for sure,

You're so fresh to death and sick as ca-ca-cancer”

 

 

Derek's packing shirts into a fancy leather bag, bent over. He hardly looks up when Stiles opens the loft door. He's already got his leather jacket on and his hair is wet, like he's just out of the shower. Stiles tries not to breath in the smell of Derek's aftershave, the one Stiles bought him for Christmas.

“What are you doing here, Stiles?”

Stiles tightens his grip on his threadbare duffel bag.

“I'm not letting you leave. Leave us, leave me." His free hand flies out unconsciously in front of him. "It's not fair and you know it.”

Derek scoffs and continues packing and not looking at him. “What do you know about leaving?”

Stiles tries not to let the rage into his voice, but it's a failed effort. “I don't, but I know a thing about what it does to those who're left behind.” Stiles takes a breath, trying to reach Derek's gaze. “I'm not going to let you do this to me. I'm coming with you. You matter. To me.” He claps at his chest, rocking the duffel hanging at his side.

Derek stiffens. He throws down the shirt he's holding and turns around. “What about what it does to me?” His eyes burn red. “Do you know how much you matter to me? How much I can't bear to lose you?” He's scared, Stiles realizes.

“So take me with you!” Stiles explodes, furious. The fucker should be scared. Stiles' duffel is forgotten and flung to the floor as both of his hands wave more wildly than before. “Take me where you're going! Then you can always make sure I'm safe and I can always make sure you're not risking your stupid life for me!”

“You don't understand.” Derek stalks over to Stiles until they're an armslength apart. “I'm poison, Stiles. I'll only make things worse.” His eyes are wide and Stiles can feel his breath coming in pants on his face. He looks like a desperate man running out of chances.

Stiles steps closer until their breaths mix, their noises millimeters from each other. “Then let me make it better,” he breathes into Derek's face, watching his eyes, and reaches a trembling hand up to Derek's face.


	2. But I still remember that day we met in December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter 2: how derek and stiles first met.

Derek follows him, crooning the following verse:

“You were sorta punk rock, I grew up on hip hop

But you fit me better than my favorite sweater, and I know

That love is mean, and love hurts

But I still remember that day we met in December, oh baby...”

 

 

“Do you remember the day that we met?”

They're on a weekend getaway, or “a three-day adventure in the Hamptons to observe more tighty-whitey lifestyle choices and mock them as alcohol consumption reigns unfettered by The Ginger Embargo aka Lydia our almighty queen and fearless leader please don't hit me we just want to celebrate a bit before the tour begins okay!”

It was his idea but now he's not sure. They're on their fourth pitcher of sangria. If they get drunk enough Derek can forget how just being here makes the itch for Stiles even worse. But being apart, like when they separate to tour with their bands in a week, will be hell. Just the idea makes him take another gulp of his drink.

Drinking also helps him deal with the knowing glances that Erica, Isaac, Lydia, Allison and sometimes even Boyd give him when he's with Stiles. Whatever is going on between them, Erica had told him, it better not affect the music and the band because that amount of eye-fucking could impregnate people.

Whatever that meant. Fuck them.

He takes another gulp and answers: “Of course.” The answer isn't even immediate, but Stiles seems startled, sitting up so quickly the strawberry daiquiri he ordered “on the side” almost topples off his stomach where it was already precariously balanced.

Not that Derek was looking. Or that his eyes were wandering towards Stiles' tie-dye swim shorts. The crotch area was just an awfully light shade of green. Derek wonders what would happen if it got wet. He wishes his werewolf abilities included the ability to see through certain items of clothing on certain people.

“Are you for serious?”

What? Oh right. “Yes. Why wouldn't I be?” Derek arches an eyebrow to show that he is very serious. Did he arch the right one? Whatever, Stiles knows his faces already. He sips his drink to feign nonchalance.

“Okay...” Stiles seems unconvinced, however. His confused face is so adorable. “Prove it. When, where, how, what was I wearing, what were our first words, and who was present?”

Hah. Derek smirked. This was easy. He could do this even with three more pitchers of sangria in his system and several Stiles in wet, see-through swim shorts.

“It was December, I was 18 and you were 14, we were in the woods, you were trespassing on my parents' property while gallivanting with your friend Scott with the weird chin. You were wearing that band shirt you still sleep in and that flannel you lost last summer to pasta sauce. I told you this was private property and that you needed to scram.” He finishes his drink as a final touch.

Stiles almost falls out of the deck chair.

“What?!? How? How do you still remember that?!”

Derek frowns. His glass of sangria is now empty but Stiles' face is more distressing. He looks like he might actually be in shock. Did he say something wrong? He slides a hand down Stiles' arm without thinking. “Are you okay?”

“No, yes, I'm fine, I mean I'm great,” sputters Stiles, his flying hands taking the warmth of his arm from Derek's grasp, “but you actually remember the exact moment we actually met for the very first time!” His hands flap in emphasis with every word. “I thought you were going to tell me about that time that shitty record company signed both of us but only had one tiny recording studio in Bushwick so we had to share all the time and you hated the pizzas I ordered because they had Italian sausage on it and stank up on the whole place and you had to order your own, not the very first moment we set eyes on each other ten years ago in fricking Beacon Hills!”

Well. Derek certainly remembered that. He brings his hand back to stroke his beard. That was a weird phase. He'd broken up with Jennifer after realizing she was dating him for the industry connections, but the band was finally getting noticed. And he'd met Stiles, for the second time. It was kind of a dark period, to be honest, full of late night recording sessions and even later hook-ups with people he met at dive bars. But it brought Stiles back into his life. And for that he was grateful.

Stiles is staring at him. Did he say all that out loud? Stiles' staring is both a bit scary and kind of turns Derek on. But he's so drunk, they're both so drunk. Better say something quick.

“You kept listening to those mixtapes from local punk bands during breaks, god they were so atrocious.”

The change is instant. “Well at least IiiiIIII'm not the one who insisted on sampling Tupac on their first record even though it didn't make any sense!” The daiquiri is now a speech prop, waved about as its red contents splash onto the pool deck and their towels.

Great. It worked, but now Derek's gonna have to tip the waitstaff extra. “Let's not forget who decided to let one of those literal band of punks borrow the studio for just one session and left everything trashed so we were banned and both lost our contracts?”

The daiquiri is somehow placed gracefully on the ground and then that same hand (still sticky) hurls a heavy punch into Derek's right bicep. “Well in that case then we better not forget that I still own a picture of you wearing that sweater with the bunny on it because” his voice attempts to recreate Derek's singing voice in a melodramatic faux British accent “it's soooo cold in hiyah”.

Derek's eyes widen and his eyebrows shoot up, then down, then up again. This was unacceptable. This was outright mockery. Werewolves are not supposed to get cold, and anyone who knows otherwise are not supposed to let other people know that sometimes werewolves are not furnaces. Derek could not let this pass.

But Stiles. Stiles' butt. Stiles' lips. See-through swim shorts.

He mulls this over, looking at his empty glass. Hm. Stiles lips wouldprobably taste like fake fruit and rum right now. He smiles to himself and sighs at the ice cubes in his glass.

He needs another drink.

Suddenly, Stiles leans back down into his chair. Derek looks at himwith what he hopes is a simple,innocently inquiring glance. “It's okay man, whatever. That studio was cold as balls.”

He studies Derek, as if looking for something important. Derek tries not to squirm. He has nothing to hide.

Stiles switches the subject to the couple they saw literally getting it on in the pool during brunch, in front of the entire hotel. Derek nods and makes appropriate noises while Stiles eviscerates them for scarring all the guests and employees with their flaming heterosex. Derek tries to forget the conversation, but he can't seem to get rid of the image of Stiles' eyes, staring into his. Even without distracting swim shorts, everytime Stiles looks at Derek he feels like he's being slowly caressed and flayed alive at the same time.

Derek hopes that Stiles found what he was looking for. He also wonders if he still has that old sweater somewhere, hidden in a box to retain the faint whiff of home that's starting to smell a lot like Stiles.


	3. Said you had to leave to start your life over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the beginning of the end

The others arch their brows, but say nothing as Stiles looks at Derek as he sings the next part, singing with just a bit more desperation than usual:

“Big dreams, gangster

Said you had to leave to start your life over

I was like, 'No please, stay here

We don't need no money we can make it all work'”

 

 

“I can't stay here anymore, I can't,” Derek says nervously as he turns from the kitchen into the bedroom. “There's nothing else I can do here.”

“That's not true,” Stiles says calmly, reading a magazine Lydia left behind. Or pretending to. Derek can never tell. “You can do me.”

It was their five month anniversary, and they were just finished cleaning up after a three-course dinner that Stiles planned and Derek cooked. The others (Erica, Boyd, Isaac, Kira, Scott, Allison, and even Lydia with her newest boytoy) had just left, although the bubbly they had brought was only half finished. Despite the easy conversation and friendly company, Lydia had given Derek a long look at the door and then hugged him, hard.

“You don't fucking get it,” Derek yells from the bedroom where he's opened his closet. “Peter's going to come after me.” He starts rearranging his shirts to hide that he's doing an inventory of things to pack.

He hopes his anxiety isn't showing. Erica's magazine had said that it wasn't attractive to look desperate.

Derek knew that Stiles was a witch, but that didn't mean anything. It meant he was good at spells and potions. It doesn't protect anyone from ancient evils or irreversible curses or, or …

So Derek was running out of time. His relationship, their relationship, had an expiry date. He hoped that nobody could tell, that they would all buy into the beginning act of their love story. But if Lydia could tell, then Stiles probably could too.

“So?” Stiles' voice was suddenly much closer. Derek turns around. Stiles is leaning against the doorway, staring steadily at Derek. His hands suddenly get sweatier. “I can magick his ass into the next century.”

Derek looks down at the shirt wadded up in his sweaty hands. “It's... It's not like that.” Derek tries to think of how he could explain a problem like his uncle. “He... he's got a debt to collect. You can't just get rid of it.”

Stiles shifts his weight but keeps his gaze on Derek. Derek can feel him studying him. “So tell me what it is. I'll help you.”

“You can't!” Derek cringes. That was desperate, desperate, he is _so_ very desperate. Fuck, why did Stiles always poke his head into these things? He couldn't solve this, nobody could. “I just need to leave before he knows I'm here.”

He turns back to his closet and starts thinking about what he stash in a small backpack, which ones of Stiles' shirts he could steal without him noticing. When did their clothes start intermingling? He's never going to get Stiles' scent out of his nose. And Peter would smell it right away. Derek suddenly wants to cry.

“Derek.” Stiles' voice is soft, and right behind him. Fucking magic. “Derek, look at me.” Derek takes a deep breath and turns around slowly.

Stiles' face is inches from his. His eyes, usually a deep chocolate brown, seem even darker in their dim bedroom. “I care about you, I care about you a lot.” Derek feels a tremble inside. He can't bear to tear his gaze from Stiles', but he can't bear to hold it either.

“I would never, ever let anything happen to you. Whatever happens, whoever you're running from,” Stiles pulls his hands into his and holds them lightly, loosely, lovingly. “I will always be right here, waiting for you.”

Derek felt his throat tighten and his mouth grow dry. If he can't bring himself to leave Stiles, Peter was going to kill them both.


	4. Caught up in the game that was the last that you heard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek runs away from his problems

Derek keeps his gaze steady at Stiles as he gives his response:

“But I headed out on Sunday, said I'd come home Monday

You stayed up waitin', anticipatin' and pacin'

But I was chasing paper

Caught up in the game that was the last that you heard”

 

 

Running away from Stiles was no easy task. It took lots of planning and lots of hiding. Hiding his feelings, hiding his bags, hiding his plans. In the end that was what gave him away.

“You're leaving.”

Derek didn't look up from the sauce he was making to look at Stiles who was leaning against the counter, watching him cook. He'd decided on the sauce because every Friday for the past 3 weeks he'd made pasta with the same sauce. In fact, it was on the menu of the dinner party they'd hosted for the five month anniversary. This would lull Stiles into a false sense of security. Or so he thought.

There was no denying it though, now that Stiles knew. He could never play any games with him. Stiles could read him like a book. He also knew that from this moment on, he could no longer look at Stiles in the eyes. Not after every touch, every kiss had been him lying, lying, lying to Stiles.

“Yes.”

“You think I don't know why.” Stiles' voice has that stubborn edge he gets when he thinks people underestimate him, like when they order pizza, or when him and Scott have their game nights. Last week was the last time Derek had hosted their game night. He'd made sure to appear just forgetful enough to have run out of pringles but still have hot cheetos.

“It doesn't matter if you do or don't. I still have to.” Derek checked the noodles and then goes back to his stirring. If he times it just right, he can get the bread toasted and the chicken done all at the same time. It would be everything Stiles loved but nothing out of the ordinary, fitting for their last meal.

The truth was that Derek had let himself believe his own lies. He'd let himself get used to hearing Stiles' heartbeat, so loud, so strong and so constant. He'd forgotten that it couldn't last. He'd taken it for granted that every morning for the last two years he could wake up to Stiles' sleeping face, mouth unattractively open and/or drooling, but so beautifully unguarded and vulnerable. So trusting of the very person who was going to leave him. Who was always going to leave him.

He'd forgotten, in the warmth of Stiles' mouth and the quirk of his lips, that he could never be with Stiles forever.

He expected Stiles to erupt, to explode with indignation. But he didn't. Maybe he knows that this should never happened, Derek thinks. Maybe it really wasn't forever. In fact, this all could have been avoided, should have been, if only Derek hadn't met her, if only he hadn't made the deal with Peter, if only he had never kissed Stiles, if only …

“You're doing it again.” Derek tried not to smile. This was going to be their last argument, and it was just like the last one. “You're blaming yourself. I can tell.”

They ate their dinner in silence. The next day Derek got up at the crack of dawn, took a taxi and left for the airport. He only stole one of Stiles' shirts, but it's one he knew Stiles will hate him for. The one Stiles wore when they first met. He's selfish enough to take this from him.

He should've realized that being the bland, happy boyfriend was a giveaway. He and Stiles had never had that. They fought, they screamed, but afterwards they always turned back to each other. Stiles would begin with one of his angry lectures where every pause between his biting words was a roar of the things unsaid. Stiles' words often made Derek feel like his heart was being torn apart, bit by bit. But they always made up. Stiles tried to find the stupid in things and Derek tried to find the honesty.

It was like they were always in orbit around each other, and neither could stay away for long. It wasn't easy all the time, but Derek liked that he had to try.

He knew Stiles deserved him trying.

 

Several months later Erica told him that Stiles was no longer sleeping. She said that he stays up for days, Derek, days. His eyes don't even move when you talk to him, she said, like his mind was a million miles away. She said that Scott was worried and staying over more and more, and that the sheriff had already moved into Stiles' apartment.

Allison told him that if he really cared for Stiles he would know what he should do.

Fucking Allison. She knew how to get into his head.

This was him trying. This was him leaving before Stiles got involved. He knew would happen all along: he would fall in love with Stiles and then he'd realize that he couldn't put Stiles in danger. That Stiles deserved someone who could touch him without leaving ash on his skin. Someone who didn't have one foot in the grave and the other one constantly on the lam. Who didn't feel the touch of her when Stiles was away. Who didn't cover his scar with ink so he could hide the deal he'd made with the devil, or the closest thing to it.

So this was his grand plan. He'd run away, stay as far away as he could, so Stiles could have a better life. A normal life. One where he didn't have deal with someone with intimacy issues because their rapist ex-girlfriend killed their entire family in a fire when they were a minor and their sociopath uncle extracts one horrible, unforgiveable deed from them every so often so they can appease the evil spirit that awoke the night of their family's last breaths.

And in the meantime, he tried to be that. Normal. He started a new job in his new place in a new city. He tried to sound convincing when he told Erica about his internship at an investment firm. He did not appreciate the whole five minutes that it took for her to get control of her incredulous laughter.

But he knew that nothing that he did changed anything. Eventually Peter would find out. He'd smell Stiles on him, because Derek is weak and sleeps with that shirt on nights when flames dance where there aren't any.

But Derek had to at least try to give Stiles a chance. He just hoped Stiles would take it.


	5. Baby can you see through the tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek has a martyr complex + the ending

Together, they sing the chorus as Isaac provides the backing vocals:

“I will love you 'til the end of time

I would wait a million years

Promise you'll remember that you're mine

Baby can you see through the tears”

 

 

When Stiles found him, he thought he had coughed up all the blood in his body. The rest, if it was still blood, had started pooling at the back of his throat. He couldn't swallow without feeling his stomach tremble from the wounds. Anyways, most of the blood towards the end was black. Soon his body would be completely full of poison.

He knew he'd left a pretty good trail dragging his body through the abandoned lot. But he thought that it was just his fantasy coming to life, the vision of Stiles on the day he first laid eyes on him a memory he visited often in the past few days. It had kept him going despite the pain. But now this was real. This wasn't a fantasy. Was it?

“Derek, Derek, hold on, don't close your eyes, I'm fucking telling you DON'T CLOSE YOUR FUCKING EYES YOU FUCKING SOURWOLF.”

Shit, it was real.

He slowly opened them and saw Stiles face, fresh tears spilling from his soft brown eyes as he held Derek's face lightly between his hands.

He must be really nasty if Stiles isn't trying to slap him awake.

“I'm going to skewer Peter for this, I fucking swear, I'm gonna make foie gras out of his freakin' liver and then go back and turn his ass into a fucking sausage link!”

There was a soft glow on either side of his face, and Stiles slowly moved one hand towards the rest of Derek's body. Derek understood, Stiles was trying to heal him. But it didn't matter. Peter had gotten what he wanted.

Derek closed his eyes again. It was enough that he saw Stiles another time. He could go now, without any regrets. It would've been worth it, he could say that he'd tried. He'd loved and he'd lost. He knew it was what he deserved.

“DON'T YOU FUCKING CLOSE YOUR EYES AGAIN OR I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL SPELL THEM OPEN!”

He put his last strength into opening his eyes a half-centimeter, to catch one last glimpse of Stiles before he went. But instead he saw that Stiles' eyes were starting to light up with an unnatural glow.

Shit. He hadn't counted on being alive for this part.

Suddenly Peter's voice rang out. “Well. This was better than I'd hoped. I thought he'd be dead by now, but you got here just in time.”

“Don't fucking play with me Peter, I got enough wolfsbane to keep you around like an armless, legless cesspool of pain and suffering until I finally grow tired of seeing you cry,” Stiles gritted out as he moved his glowing hand along Derek's body. Derek felt his wounds healing, but it was too slow. The blood that oozed out was still black.

“Actually, I'd be okay with that,” Peter drawled, probably looking at his fucking cuticles. “Because I already have what I want.”

“And what's that,” Stiles grunted as he gently set Derek's head down and moved both hands to work on his wounds. Derek tried to move his mouth, but his lips had been slashed into a grin that was slowly knitting back together.

“I have you.”

“Har har har, very funny, you can't have me, I am my own person, no one owns me because I am a freelance witch who knows their worth. What else have you got?”

Derek winced as his cheeks grew whole again. “Y-your eyes, Stiles, your eyes!”

“Yes sourwolf I know they're pretty but this isn't the time right now.”

Peter snickered. Derek wished he could fling some of his black goop at him, but his hands are still hanging off by their tendons. “I think my nephew here is trying to tell you that your spark has been ignited.”

“Oh really? Consider me informed. Now is there anything else you have to tell me before I turn you into a turnip, eat you and then excrete you?”

“Oh, but you haven't seen the real me, have you?” Derek turns his gaze away from Peter's mocking grin and to Stiles' face. He'd seen this transformation before, and often in his nightmares. “Look, Stiles. Look at what I am.”

Stiles sighed, then turned his head. He makes a grunt. “Uh, so?”

“I am the master of souls, Stiles,” Peter's voice snarled through the neverending teeth in his new gaping maw. “I am sent by he who takes and is never satisfied. And I am here to take you.”

“Um. 'Kay. So what does that have to do with me?”

Peter roared. “I am here to TAKE YOU. Willingly or not, you are mine!”

“Nope. Sorry. Not sure if you got the memo, but Derek and I already did the dirty a while ago.” Fucking Stiles. Did he really have to do this while Derek was dying?

“Silly witch, you don't get it do you?” Derek hears claws scrape on the floor as Peter settled his giant form on his haunches. “Once your spark takes over you will have no choice. I _will_ take you, or I will take everything you have away from you.”

“Har har. Like you have a chance.” But Derek felt his leg suddenly get a jolt of power. Stiles was trying to hurry.

“Let me see you try, stupid witch,” Peter sneers. Suddenly the air around them whirls into a vortex. The heavy sounds of Peter's wings taking flight fill Derek's ears.

Stiles finally glances up at Derek. His eyes are bright beacons of pure light.

“No, Stiles, don't-” Derek gasps, but Stiles cuts him off. “It's alright, I'm gonna bust his ass-” “-You don't understand, he's going to eat your power--” “-and grill his face-” “-he's the Nemeton's arm, he wants you to reveal yourself!”

But it was too late. Stiles' eyes were so bright Derek could no longer look at him, and the rest of his body was beginning to emit the same kind of glow.

“You're going to disintegrate and he's going to eat you!” Derek screamed as he squeezed his eyes shut.

“You mean I'm going to fucking dissolve this ingrate!”

Peter depthless roar made the ground tremble. “Yes, Stiles, do try. It will make it so much more amusing when I devour you.”

Everything suddenly became blinded by a light that Derek knew was Stiles.

 

They finish the song. Derek keeps his gaze on Stiles, who suddenly finds his pants seam very interesting. A silence rings through the room.

Kira breaks it first. “Okay! That was like probably the first time we did a run-through with no mistakes! Wow, um I'm going to listen to the playback, anyone want to come along?”

Isaac and Erica mumble and nod as they shuffle after Kira. The moment the door closed behind them, Stiles looks up at Derek. “Do you know what happened?” he asks.

Now it's Derek's turn to avoid Stiles' gaze, but he refuses to give into the urge. “No. The next thing I knew I was at the hospital and Scott was telling me that you were in intensive care.”

There is a pause. Derek tries to keep his eyes from betraying the despair he had felt when he finally woke up. That he might find out he was still alive and had possibly lost everything, including Stiles' humanity. That he wondered if it was really worth waking up at all.

“I don't either,” Stiles whispers so softly that Derek almost misses the words. Stiles dips his head and returns to studying his pants. “They said I had a concussion but there was nothing wrong with me. The last thing I remember is seeing Peter coming at us.”

Derek lets that hang in the air. Neither of them have been able to move on past this. No matter how many times he's asked the sheriff or Scott about what happened, it was still a mystery as to what kept them both from dying at that moment.

But Derek still needs to know one thing.

“Do you regret it?”

“What?” Stiles looks up from his fidgeting, eyes inquisitive and alert. Derek steels himself for the dreaded response. “Regret what?”

“Saving me.” Putting himself between a coward and a monster, Derek thinks. Finding out that Stiles was some strange creature, stranger than he had been before. And discovering that Derek, his ex-boyfriend with enough baggage to sink an oceanliner, was actually the nephew of a reanimated corpse that ate powers to stay alive. Learning that this ex was dumb enough to think it would work out when he fell head over ass for him, until it didn't and he ran away like a fucking child.

Derek watches Stiles ponder this and tries to wipe his face of emotion.

“No.” Derek's not sure he heard correctly. “No, I don't regret coming for you.” Stiles' returns to his pants and his fidgeting increases. “The only thing I regret is not figuring it out sooner.”

“What?”

Stiles jumps off his seat like a spring, eyes blazing. “You thought you were so fucking smart, you fucking idiot, but I knew all along what you were. I KNEW. Derek, I knew all along. And I still wanted you. Okay?”

Derek feels something move inside of him. He tries to pretend it didn't happen. It couldn't happen.

“I'm not sure I d-”

“The ONLY reason why I'm here, why I'm alive still, I believe, is because I FUCKING CARE about your stupid ass.”

Oh. “Okay.” Derek's voice surpises himself. “Okay. Well.” For lack of a better word to say, he says it again. “Okay.”

“Okay what?” Stiles breathes out like a sigh. His voice is a mix of exasperation and askance. “Like 'Okay I accept that you love and care for me and I will stop giving into my martyr complex and ACTUALLY allow myself to be loved and cared for', or 'Okay I am being my usual dumb self and will continue to self-flagellate until every one who cares for me leaves me because I push them away'?”

Derek pauses before responding and considers his words carefully. He takes a deep breath.

“The first one.”

This makes Stiles stop for a moment. Then he asks, “Is that why you wrote this song and got Scott to make us look at it? So you could say all this to me?”

Yes. No. “Yes. I needed you to know I was sorry.” Derek dares a look into Stiles' eyes, the same ones that almost blinded him while he lay dying in a trap set for Stiles and Stiles alone.

“Well I don't want you to be sorry!” Stiles announces. “Sorry's not good enough! And anyways,” Stiles' voice takes on a familiar, ornery tone, “I want you to tell me that it was all worth it. That getting your shit all fucked up by your homicidal uncle to lure me into a trap that didn't actually trap me was worth it. That dicking around in the woods with me and Scott while being a sourwolf all the time was worth it. That listening to me whine about Erica and Boyd being sickeningly in love was worth it.” Stiles clears his throat and his voice grows more serious. “That going through all this was worth it, because you went through it with me. We got through it together, which makes it worth it.”

Derek opens his mouth but he doesn't know what to say. He doesn't say anything. Stiles deserved better than this, didn't he? Why couldn't he see that?

Stiles seems nervous, suddenly. “Derek... I just... I want you to say that you want me. To be with you, to be by your side. To be on your side. I don't want to fight about whether you're right or wrong. I just want to be near you, whenever you need me and even when you don't.”

Stiles pauses and sighs. Suddenly he seems older than his twenty-four years. “Please. Derek, just tell me you want me too.”

Derek thinks about this.

He remembers the magnetism of Stiles when they first met, for the second time in the studio. His body, his hands, his everything. How Derek couldn't stop thinking about Stiles and how he hoped Stiles felt the same even though he'd been an asshole all those years ago in the preserve. And then when they finally got together, how it mellowed into something simple yet complicated yet too beautiful to put into words. How elated he felt just to be in the same room, smiling like an idiot while they did stupid chores.

But he also remembers how they got here.

“Yes. I want you.” Stiles shoots up. His entire body is rigid with surprise. “But I don't think I should,” Derek stammers out, “and I think I need some time to understand why.”

His face burns. Why is he always so weak? After all they've been through, he still can't answer a simple question about his feelings.

Stiles' face is shocked. Then it suddenly disappears behind a nonchalant nod. “Yeah, of course, right. Take as much time as you need.” He swallows and clears his throat. “But Derek?”

Derek raises his head, face still burning. “Yes?”

“I want you to know I really really really want you to get better.” Stiles pauses, staring at his feet. “Better at everything. Just in general. And I... I'm gonna need you to tell me that you want me. I'm gonna need uh,” a mischievous grin starts to appear, “positive reinforcement, let's say. Because I don't want to rush you,” Stiles' hands come up in a slowing down motion, then drop as he takes a deep breath to finish his sentence. “And I also want to know that you're not going to run away again. That you're staying for me.”

“Yes.” For him, anything, thinks Derek. “Yes, I'll stay for you. And,” feeling like he had to add something more, “I'll try. With the positive reinforcement. I'll work on it.”

A shyness Derek doesn't remember ever feeling bubbles up within him. He and Stiles had never been shy. Maybe abrasive and bickering, but never shy. But Stiles seemed to feel the same, in the way he looked at Derek. Or so Derek hoped.

“Well. Let's get out of here before they charge us more for therapy.” He stretches, as if they'd just been jamming instead of talking about their issues and feelings. Stiles walks over to Derek with his usual smirk, eyes searching his for a sign. “C'mon, sourwolf, let's go grab some food and leave those losers behind.” Stiles extends his hand to Derek's.

Derek looks at the hand. It's the same one that's held him through his freakouts, his orgasms, his most recent near-death experience. It's a sign of everything that they had, but also everything they could have in the future. It's everything Derek wants to have, but wouldn't allow himself to take. But this time, this time he's going to try. He'll try. For Stiles.

Derek extends his hand to Stiles', and takes it.


End file.
